


Unfamiliar Territory

by Haylox



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Sickfic, Sneezing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26506849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haylox/pseuds/Haylox
Summary: Ideally, he would prefer to suffer this cold in privacy, holed up somewhere warm and dark with no one to hear nor see him. Given that no such luxuries exist in his life, and that he’s going to be out on the unforgiving Path anyway, at least there is an extra set of hands to help break camp.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1
Kudos: 64





	Unfamiliar Territory

**Author's Note:**

> This if a fetish. If you're not into this specific fetish, it might be a little weird for you, but feel free to read anyway I guess!

The clammy sensation lingers with Geralt long after he’s wiped out the humble fishing village’s roaming pack of drowners. It’s not a difficult contract, just tedious, and the settlement is tiny enough that it won’t pay well. There isn’t even an inn or tavern for Jaskier to drum up some attention or extra income at. The best that he and his traveling companion can hope for is some smoked fish and a somewhat dry spot to bed down for the night. **  
**

At first, the witcher presumes the lingering ache in his muscles and the sticky itch in his throat to be a side-effect of splashing around in a frigid river for half the evening. It’s fine, he’s endured worse.

They spend the night in a spare room that one of the locals avails them of. It’s about as dank and unpleasant as the rest of the village and the river itself, but Geralt isn’t about to complain. The purpose of them stopping at this settlement at all was not for any hefty sum of payment, but to give these poor folk a chance at re-establishing their single economy, now that the drowned dead have been cleared from their shores. 

Anyway, he’s tired, there’s a low burn in his sinuses, and he looks forward to sleeping it all off. In the morning, he’ll be set right and they can make up some of the lost ground.

What actually happens, in the morning, is that Geralt feels like he’s been run over by an ox cart.

The dull throb of sinus pressure has expanded throughout his entire skull, and he somehow wakes both dehydrated and yet with an alarmingly wet cough that has Jaskier frowning at him. He rolls over and ignores the bard in favor of dealing with the bewildering onslaught of symptoms. Even once he’s finished expectorating whatever insult has crept into his lungs overnight, he’s left with a certain rawness in the center of his chest and a queer tingle at the tip of his nose. What is _wrong_ with him? Did he take an envenomed bite that he doesn’t remember? Mix a potion incorrectly? Piss off some minor spirit or hedge witch?

It’s not until later that morning, as he’s saddling Roach in the stableyard, that the coin finally drops. He’s just finished cinching her girth up snug when the dull, irksome prickle behind his eyes suddenly stabs him a little deeper. He winces, lip curling, then shudders in a surprised breath as the sensation turns over into the abrupt urge to sneeze. Fuck. 

He paces himself with a couple of hitching breaths, conscious of the early hour. He’d rather not wake half the village, but the low headache he’s had all morning suggests that holding it in would be immeasurably worse. His staggered gasps manage to stave the inevitable off just long enough to get an arm crushed to his face, making every attempt to muffle the oncoming rush.

“HH’ _ **RRRHUSSHH**_ -SHOO!”

The sneeze that escapes him is still clamorous enough to startle a nearby flock of chickens. The half dozen of them flee around the corner of the house in a commotion of feathers and disappointed clucking, leaving Geralt blinking and sniffling in their wake. He groans with the dawn of realization.

Right. Not a magical fever or cryptic infection, then. Just a headcold, which is such a…a human illness that it seems absurd by comparison. It’s been so long since he’s had one, he barely even recognized all the tell-tale signs. 

Unfortunately, it does mean that the next week will be a burden. It won’t slow him down as much as a broken bone or something akin to it, but it will certainly cling on longer than the hangover from a potion toxicity. There’s nothing that he can do for it, though, no poultice or tincture to alleviate this minor misery. He’ll just have to push through, perhaps while abusing his handkerchief more often. 

He’ll also have to try not to bite his companion’s head off, when his temper inevitably frays. This is going to be generally unpleasant for everyone. 

With a sigh, he smooths a hand down Roach’s sleek chestnut neck, and grips the saddle to pull himself up. “Sorry, girl,” he rumbles, already aware of how his voice is starting to deepen. “You’re both stuck listening to me.” 

Roach snorts and switches her tail, but mercifully has no other complaint. 

It actually takes Jaskier the length of the day to notice anything amiss. That’s Geralt’s initial impression, anyway, as they put the next stretch of the Pontar behind them, riding upstream. They make good distance despite the sludging sensation of unwellness that he feels dragging at him. It’s irritating, but the first day usually isn’t too terrible. They can reach the next town by tomorrow, he estimates, and hopefully narrow in on the trail of a larger contract he’s been following up from the Devil’s Ford. A night in an actual inn might ease the worst of his ailment before it really sets in. 

Tonight, it’s a small camp by the riverside. Geralt prowls the banks, back and forth a few hundred paces in either direction to ensure the safety of the chosen site. He needs to be especially careful to secure their perimeter tonight, given how stifled his senses are. He’ll still pick up far more than a human, of course, even with the handicap. He just doesn’t want to risk compromising Jaskier’s— compromising _their_ safety because he’s got a stuffy nose. 

By the time he returns with an armful of kindling, Jaskier has already strung up a line for Roach and is working on clearing out a fire bed. That’s one benefit of traveling with company, Geralt supposes. 

Ideally, he would prefer to suffer this cold in privacy, holed up somewhere warm and dark with no one to hear nor see him. Given that no such luxuries exist in his life, and that he’s going to be out on the unforgiving Path anyway, at least there is an extra set of hands to help break camp. Jaskier has been traveling with him for a few years now, off and on. Geralt tolerated a certain softness for exactly one season, when Jaskier had been barely eighteen and still all coltish limbs and idealism, before he began drilling into him a necessary set of survival skills.

Survival _instincts_ are something that he suspects Jaskier will never possess, but at least he can build a fire and generally avoid being eaten by wolves when left to his own devices. 

“No creeping crawlies lurking in the shadows, I take it?” Jaskier prompts without looking up at him. He sits back on his heels once he’s arranged a passable little circle of stones to frame their fire. There’s a slight tinge of sweat on his brow, and dirt on his palms. His jacket was new when they’d met up near Novigrad a few weeks back, but it needs laundering and mending now. 

Geralt wonders if he’ll ever stop feeling bemused by the bard’s apparent willingness to muddle about in ditches with a witcher and his horse. Even now a young man, with a good breadth of muscle and a few more years of worldly experience beneath his belt, Jaskier is clearly bred and tailor made for finer company than this. 

But it’s his choice, isn’t it? 

“None so far,” Geralt grunts simply, as he clatters the firewood down beside his companion. Jaskier sets upon it like a nesting bird and starts building up kindling while Geralt goes to tend Roach. 

He tests her line, satisfied by its tensile strength, then untacks her and rubs her down. He always spends some time in the evening with his mare like this, whether he’s traveling with the bard or not. It settles him in a different way to ease her down for the night, murmuring private affection as he scruffs his fingertips in her pelt and itches at the spots she likes. Roach gives him an occasional fond bump in turn, her ears slack and great, dark eyes calmed by the touch. 

It’s pleasant in its familiarity, but the entire process of swapping out her saddle and blanket, checking her hooves, and gentling his hands over her stirs up a fair amount of travel dirt and dust, all the debris of a day on the road. Dismayed, Geralt is forced to cut the usual ritual short when he feels it beginning to catch in his sinuses.

He backs away from his horse, nose wrinkling, but tries to crush the sensation back with the brunt of his knuckles. He’s been having limited success with that today, choking the occasional wretched snort or cough back against the leather of his gloves. He’s already well tired of trying to suppress his sneezes, however. It’s not as if Roach cares, and the bard… well…

“HUH- _RUSSSH_ -uh!” He cups a hand to his face before he can contemplate the matter any further. He stays grimaced like that, his throat roughed warm and slightly stinging, his sinuses continuing to twinge. “Hh… _hh!_ ” He braces his shoulders and presses a hand to one thigh. “-- _ahrrh- **RHSSHHH**_ -shoo!” 

The noise is resounding in the quiet of the woods and the satisfaction of relieving the tickle is muted by the wave of vertigo that rolls over him. It’s probably… best to get off his feet now. 

As Geralt collapses onto a bedroll spread beside the yet-unlit fire a few moments later, Jaskier looks at him with a hesitating expression.

“Bless you. You’ve been… doing an awful lot of that today.”

Geralt lifts his head from sorting through his pack long enough to give him a bleary squint. “Mm?” 

“All that… sneezing and sniffling and so forth,” the bard clarifies, with an illustrious flip of his soil-smudged hand. 

Ah. So he had noticed, and merely waited until now to mention it. With anyone else, Geralt could suspect that they were working up the nerve -- one look at a witcher is typically enough to dissuade any thoughts of them being a pleasant patient. Jaskier already has some experience at that from tending his occasional injuries, though, and he’s never shown a lick of fear in Geralt’s presence. 

Curious, then, that he didn’t squawk about the observation the second it flew into his head.

“It happens,” Geralt growls, because what else is he meant to say? He has been doing a lot of all that sneezing, sniffling, and so forth. He can’t exactly help it any more than he is. 

Jaskier jumps slightly as Geralt abandons his pack and casts a flick of Igni at the waiting tinder between them. The clearing is briefly, brilliantly illuminated before the flame subsides to catch at the edges of dry kindling and stoke a more humble fire. Geralt had been banking on it distracting the bard from his line of questioning. After a few fussing noises and pokes to rearrange the fire to his liking, however, Jaskier wheels right back around on him. Tenacious bastard.

“ _Are_ you alright though? I’ve never known you to… I mean. Have you been poisoned or cursed or something?” 

At that, Geralt gives a low, rough chuckle that aches at his chest a little. Hadn’t he had that very same thought, this morning?

“I’ll live.”

Jaskier makes a face. “Alright.” He sighs and props his elbows to his knees, head in his hands in theatrical dismay. “Geralt, you do see how that isn’t helpful information for me, right? Last autumn you nearly got bit _in two_ by a wyvern, and walked it off as though it were no more than a sprained ankle.” 

Geralt smiles bitterly. 

The fire is welcome, but the welling crackle of its heat and light also makes his eyes sore and a bit dry, in direct contrast to the mucksome feeling further back. He swallows, producing a dull click as he tries to work at the pressure gathering there, tries scratch at that dull itch in his throat just beyond where he can reach. 

Would being bitten in half by a wyvern be preferable, just now?

“Good times,” he sighs, of that encounter past. 

“ _Geralt_.” 

Geralt holds up a hand to stay his ire, though he’s forced to bring the other to his face before he can produce an actual response. He can’t, just yet, because this godsforsaken cold is about to make him sneeze _again_. 

Breathing uneasily, he presses the curled knuckle of a forefinger under his twitching septum as the sensation builds, and builds, and…

“— _ **HRRSHSH** -shoo!_”

He manages to throttle it back to a somewhat reasonable degree, despite the tightening vice of his throat. He spends a breathless moment afterwards waiting to see if the lingering barb is going to provoke him into another eruption. He shudders a small sigh when it fades on its own, though he still feels out of sorts afterward.

“Bless you. Geralt, please…”

Jaskier stares at him with abject dismay, now, his brows steepled and long fingers twining together in the way that they do when he’s anxious. Jaskier tends to express himself with his entire body, and the mood at the moment seems to be… what, disappointment? Concern?

Geralt sighs and presses the fingertips of both hands gingerly to the sides of his nose, trying to ease the burden of congestion.

“I’m fine,” he assures, voice muffled by the book fold of his hands, then sniffles thickly and confesses the rather mundane truth with his eyes weighed shut. “I have a cold.”

Silence, from across the fire, then the soft sound of Jaskier’s inhale and dip of his throat as he swallows. “Oh.” He pauses, though Geralt hears him fiddling with a few scraps of leaf litter, breaking twigs in his hands before tossing them into the hungry flames. “I… had rather suspected, but then I thought _oh_ _that’s ridiculous, he can’t catch cold_.” 

A ridiculous assumption indeed, but not for the reason Jaskier imagined. Geralt resists the urge to snort, if only because it’s sure to be disastrous, painful, or both with the compromised state of his sinuses.

“I can and I do,” he sighs, gives the inside corners of his eyes one last, wincing prod, then pries his lashes open until the blur of robin’s egg blue resolves into Jaskier looking still a bit upset. “It… doesn’t happen often,” he adds, in a stiff attempt to assuage the man’s crestfallen expression. What is he so fussed about? It isn’t as if he’s the one who’s going to be smothering a dripping nose into his handkerchief for the next few days. 

Speaking of which. 

He pulls his pack back towards him and resumes rummaging through it while Jaskier sighs and rubs his wrists, still full of restless emotional energy.

“I should say so. I’ve traveled with you for half a decade,” he starts. Geralt hums a soft note of surprise to himself as he paws past a spare tunic and a bundle of leather scraps. Has it been that long together? “You’ve never had--... ”

“-- _hh!”_ The witcher inhales abruptly, rearing back from his fruitless search with a fresh wellspring of tears flooding across his eyes. For fuck’s sake…

“... -- so much as a sniffle, and yet here you are, sounding like a leaky gutter and this whole time, I—,” Jaskier continues on, unaffected by the witcher’s expression of open distress, nostrils arched into a flare and the sharp tips of his teeth revealed in a heady grimace. He tries not to let any of it show around common folk, or at least attempts to hide his wanting snarl behind his gloves, if he can’t avoid it. His features can frighten in the best of times, and even more so when contorted in pain. Or when he’s about to sneeze. 

Jaskier is fortunately immune to even his harshest tones, but that’s a small comfort in the… _in the moment_ …   
  
“-- _HUHTSSH- **SHOO**_!” 

He roars with sudden release, aiming it away from the fire and interrupting the stream of chatter that he’s already mentally resigned to background noise. He only notices its absence in the startled quiet that follows, both from the woods and from his companion.

Groggily, he pries himself up from the tight furl over his lap, and looks at Jaskier askance. The bard has snapped his mouth shut, yet has that funny look of unrest about him once more. Geralt sniffles mightily and mourns the absence of the handkerchief that he clearly doesn’t have with him after all. He considers whether it’s worth sacrificing his spare shirt to the knife. 

“Bless you,” Jaskier volunteers, his voice gone quiet and soft.

Geralt sighs. The frustration simmers under his bones, with the lack of even the most basic comforts, with trying to decipher what exactly is so offensive to the bard, and with the fact that there’s still a dull prickle seething behind his eyes. 

It’s not going to do either of them any good to snap, even if it might feel cathartic for a moment.

“It doesn’t happen often,” he repeats himself with a watery glare, because half a decade might well cover that interim, for all that he can remember the last time he was sick. Another sniff recalls the edge of wetness that’s threatening to breach his sinuses, though it does nothing for the thick bank of congestion. “And you’re not always with me.”

Something about that seems to hamstring Jaskier’s fretting further, or at least turns it inward. His eyes drop, and his mouth pulls into a more subtle frown. Geralt isn’t sure if that’s a better look.

“No, I suppose I’m not.”

He’s unsure what more he can say on the matter, or what will absolve Jaskier’s sulking. The bard doesn’t deserve his poor mood anyway. Instead, Geralt subsides into his rueful silence again. It’s difficult with all of the constant little noises of maintenance he’s forced to make, in an attempt to keep his airways in check.

Once Jaskier has backed down, he puts his mind towards accomplishing at least one or two evening tasks. Try as he might, however, he doesn’t have the focus for a single fucking thing. Repairing his armor or taking stock of his potions may as well be deep sorcery to him at this point, so he soon gives in to the futility of it all. The only respite he can reasonably hope for is the oblivion of sleep, and even that may still be hard-won.

He turns his back to the fire and curls onto his side in a tight, uncomfortable crimp, chasing the darkness inside his eyelids. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier finally taps at his proverbial attention again. The bard has mostly let him alone, after his initial pester, but clearly the witcher hasn’t drifted far from his thoughts. “Don’t you want supper?”

Geralt sighs, rough and tired. Jaskier’s concern isn’t misplaced. While his stomach doesn’t turn towards nausea, however, the idea of choking down salt fish and hard tack sounds exhausting. 

“M’fine,” he coughs into a furl of his cloak. 

He feels Jaskier’s intense displeasure welling at his back, even before he hears it in his voice. “You’re ill. You should eat something.”

Geralt lifts a few forefingers over his shoulder in a low-effort wave of dismissal. “I’m not going to starve, Jaskier. Got the mutations to thank for that.” 

It’s not entirely the truth. He’s been starved worryingly thin on many occasions. It’s just much harder to starve a witcher to _death_. Somehow, he suspects that Jaskier’s tender heart won’t appreciate hearing that part. 

Jaskier sighs, sounding as if he’s suffering the greatest fool on earth. Maybe he is. At least some of his familiar drama is creeping back in, which in turn eases the witcher a bit. “Geralt, that is so utterly besides the-- _ugh_!” He aborts himself in early frustration, and Geralt can hear him toss his hands up.

The witcher remains in his determined curl, already able to tell that sleep won’t readily come. Even if it weren’t for his company, he’d be just as distracted by the constant drip of his nose. He tries to sniffle it back as best he can, but laying on his side only occludes his efforts further. As a result, he’s stuck in an aggravated loop of either blotting his nose against his cloak, or enduring the light, fluttery beginnings of a sneeze that never quite manifests. It’s enormously frustrating, and he debates how horrified Jaskier would be if he just gave in and blew his nose straight into his tunic. The sheer misery is it’s own kind of meditative haze.

He hasn’t entirely let the bard nor the rest of the camp slip beneath his scope of awareness, but he still startles some time later, when he feels Jaskier suddenly within his space. Fuck.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jaskier gentles, withdrawing his hand from where it had been about to brush Geralt’s shoulder. “I thought you were still awake.”

Although Jaskier has been tactile with him from day one, he’s also been very respectful of Geralt’s rule about being touched while he’s asleep. Those parameters were easier to enforce before they began sharing a bed so regularly, of course. They should maybe revisit that conversation some day, given how tacit his trust in the bard has become. They’re certainly past the point where even his muddled hindbrain might perceive Jaskier as any kind of threat and react accordingly, and Geralt himself doesn’t… strictly mind waking tangled up with one another.

It’s definitely not a talking point for tonight. 

“S’fine,” Geralt rasps softly instead. He turns and sits up slightly, letting one shoulder bump against Jaskier in an effort to communicate some of that unspoken weight. “Wasn’t asleep.” 

Maybe not fully awake either, though, since the bard has apparently had time to boil water and… gather herbs? Geralt blinks when a cup of something fragrant and steaming is pressed upon him. 

“Here, if you won’t eat anything, at least humor me and drink this.” 

Geralt stares down at the dark, cloudy surface of the offering. “Tea?” A wisp of fragrant steam curls past his nose and so cautiously, he brings the heat of it closer. The next breath draws in the scent of something peppery and sharp that manages to tingle past his congestion. It’s both a blissful and irritating feeling, one that has Geralt pausing a moment to wrinkle and relax his nose, blink his watering eyes. “With wild mint,” he huffs on the exhale. “... and nettle.”

“Ah, your nose is still in fine form,” Jaskier teases gently, then bumps his shoulder back into him. Also gently, lest the tea spill. “There’s a bit of honey, too, but don’t tell Roach I have it. I’m afraid it’s for special occasions only and she has no respect for ceremony.”

“She’s a horse,” Geralt points out, swirls the herbal tonic once, then takes a slow sip. He doesn’t expect the heat of it to feel as good on his throat as it does. The honey is just enough to soften the edge of bitterness to the drink, although the mint is almost overwhelmingly pungent. He finds himself squinting and tearing again as it sears through his sinuses. A few sharp sniffs actually manage to move some pressure, and he nearly groans with that relief alone.

“Fuck. I can breathe again.” 

“Well, it’s bound to be potent at least,” Jaskier laughs a little, as he folds his hands and gazes back towards the fire. “Good old roadside brew.”

Potent is certainly a word for it. It doesn’t dissuade Geralt from another long swallow, however, and another lusty sniffle. Better and better, he can even feel the cool sting of it opening up his chest and throat. It’s the most incredible and cleansing sensation, after spending the entire evening so miserably stuffed up. 

It’s also absolutely going to make him sneeze. 

He manages one more pull from the cup before he feels his breath catch, and is forced to set the last sip aside. He swallows, then parts his lips to let the next jagged inhale tickle just so against his palate. It’s exactly the right twinge to curl his lip up into a toothsome snarl, and push him over the edge.

“ _UHHSHH-_ shuh!” He catches the quick, cringing bark of it against his arm, inhales, and immediately repeats himself. “-- _UHSSH_ -shoo!” 

The pressure in his head may have lessened, but his nose is already starting to stream in earnest. There’s nothing he can do for it but to press his cloak beneath, trying not to wince at the rough drag of wool against nostrils chafed sensitive and raw. 

“--uhh _ **UHHSHH** -oo!_” 

“Bless you,” Jaskier offers at a pause in his flinching reaction. He tilts his head, the soft fringe of his hair brushing over his eyes. “I was a little afraid that might happen. I’ve never seen you sneeze so much.” He finally seems to catch on to the way Geralt is misappropriating his cloak, because his tone turns sharp and his hands twitch in the air. “Melitele, what are you… haven’t you got a handkerchief, darling?’

Geralt squints and shakes his head through the brief wash of shame. “Lost it,” he rasps, then grimaces with inhale. “--huhtssh- _SSSH **OO**_!” 

“And you’ve just been… oh, for pity’s sake,” Jaskier anguishes, before reaching into his doublet and producing a clean square of linen. He thrusts it upon Geralt without further ceremony. “Here, don’t even think of refusing.” 

Geralt does not think of refusing. He isn’t so proud. His nose is incredibly sore, however, and the soft fabric feels immeasurably better when he presses it in place. His shoulders lift and relax as he hitches once, twice, then tumbles forward into the waiting bundle of cloth.

“—huh- _ **UHSSHH**_ - _UH!!_ ”

He groans audibly this time, as the sneeze scrapes through the last of his congestion with mint-sharp assault. The exhausted but relieved tone of his sigh doesn’t escape Jaskier. 

“May I point out that I’d have given that to you at _any_ point, today, if you’d only asked,” he informs Geralt crisply. 

The witcher lets him scold, too grateful for the ability to draw a long breath and empty a great deal of the ugliness from his head. It’s not a pleasant sound or sight, he’s sure, and yet Jaskier’s hand is on his back when he’s done, passing a steady back-and-forth stroke between his shoulders. 

“Didn’t think of it,” Geralt confesses with a sigh. He’s a bit light-headed with relief, and enjoys the clear passage of air through his nose for as long as it lasts. Not all night, he has no such hopes, but maybe long enough for him to fall asleep. 

“... thank you,” he tacks on, belatedly, because he certainly feels like he owes Jaskier something for putting up with all of this. The bard looks suitably surprised -- he blinks for a few beats before he collects himself. 

“You’re welcome.” He takes his hand back then, and extends his legs and fingertips back towards the fire. He seems to be in no hurry to move back to the other side of it, but neither is Geralt inclined to oust him. “I suppose I should thank you for letting me fuss, too.”

Geralt twists his nose indulgently in the handkerchief, bent languid over his lap. Most of the frustrated energy has seeped back out of him, and he’s starting to feel the genuine pull of sleep. “I should expect no less,” he muffles. 

Jaskier snorts, then smiles in the firelight. “Well, you’re no easy patient, but I already knew that.” 

Geralt smothers a long, silently snarling yawn into his palms, and enjoys the way it makes his ears pop. “Of that, I was also aware.” 

He rubs the tip of his nose against his wrist, working away a slight leftover tingle. It’s not enough to make him sneeze again, and it feels good to grind the dull itch down into nothing but a follow-up sniffle and a watery few blinks. “Afraid I’ll be worse company than usual, for the next few days,” he admits when he’s finished.

“Tut,” Jaskier says. “You’re always terrible company, so what’s the difference?” His tone is so warm and fond that it leaves no room for upset, especially not with the way his hand settles back to the witcher’s nape. A calloused thumb digs gently into the top of his vertebrae, just on the right side of painful relief. “I _am_ sorry you’re unwell, dear. I hate to see you suffer.” 

Geralt grunts softly, dropping his head while simultaneously leaning back into the sharp pressure point. Of course that’s why Jaskier’s been upset. He should have expected the bard to be as worked up about a petty human virus as he is about open wounds and potion-black eyes that linger just a bit too long. He still finds himself surprised by all the earnest and steadfast little ways that Jaskier cares about him. It’s… strange, and even now still takes some getting used to.

It’s not unpleasant, though. 

“I need sleep,” he admits on the rough edge of an exhale, some moments later. Dim golden eyes lift to seek out Jaskier’s features through the play of flame and shadow.

Jaskier withdraws his touch and lets Geralt settle himself. “Of course, of course. I’ll try not to bother you.”

The witcher curls back onto his side in a considerably more comfortable state than before, his cloak pillowed beneath his head now rather than serving as some terrible stand-in for the soft handkerchief he now clutches close. The fire and Jaskier’s nearby body heat are enough to keep him warm.

He catches a slight look back over one shoulder. Sniffles.

“You could… keep that up. If you wanted,” he says stiffly. He is less comfortable with asking for touch simply for the sake of it. Lucky, then, that Jaskier smiles and seems to think nothing of sifting a few strands of sweat-damp silver hair away and smoothing his fingertips over vulnerable skin. It feels very good, both gentle and grounding. 

All missteps aside, the last of the lingering tension begins to unspool and Geralt soon finds himself lulled into the contact, drifting slowly but surely towards a deeper rest. 


End file.
